Wilhelmina Stitch was born in 1888 in Cambridge, England and later moved to Manitoba, Canada. There she started writing. Ruth Colie’s pen name was Wilhelmina Stitch. She was also used the pen name Sheila Rand. She lived for 47 years and died in 1936, but her best poetry is still loved by people.
Table of Contents
Laughter and Tears
by Wilhelmina Stitch
Laughter shook his locks of gold,
shook his golden locks and cried,
“What are these I now behold!”
“Tears,” the voice of sorrow sighed.
“Tears,” said laughter with a trill,
with a trill like blackbird’s song,
“They, indeed, are very ill,
they must go where they belong.
Fie upon you! Shame!
O tears, run away and join dead years.”
Laughter, with your locks of gold,
be not arrogant and vain.
Have you never one been told,
Tears can heal a bitter pain?
Tears prevent a grim despair
Settling on the aching hear;
They can wash away a care;
Play a most important part.
God made tears and laughter, too;
Precious gifts, His twofold plan.
Tears refresh, like rain and dew,
The parched and anguished soul of man.
Laughter tossed his golden hair,
“I am here. Grey tears, beware!”
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Self-Deception
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
How we deceive ourselves day after day!
Saying, “We lack the time for things we’d like to do.”
Sighing, “Why do the hours so swiftly pass away?”
(often I act like this, and so do you!)
To view some pictures? Ah! we’d like to go,
and also to a park where lilacs bloom.
Not possible! So busy, as you know.
This lack of time just steeps a soul in gloom!
We have no time to take a daily walk,
We haven’t any time at all to read,
Or write the promised letter (how we talk!),
No time to help another in dire need.
One day old Time will let his anger fly
And take us by the shoulders and shake hard.
“You are to blame, not I!” he loudly cry.
“I’ll punish you for this, be your on your guard.
It is not time you lack,
But just the will to do the things you always leave undone.”
Ah! Time, you’re right. Come paper, ink and quill –
I’ll write at once to mother and my son.
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The Little Roads To Happiness
by Wilhelmina Stitch
The little roads to happiness,
They are not hard to find;
They do not lead to great success –
but to a quiet mind.
They do not lead to mighty power,
Nor to substantial wealth.
They bring one to a book, a flower,
A song of cheer and health.
The little roads to happiness are free to everyone;
They lead one to the wind’s caress,
To kiss of friendly sun.
These little roads are shining white,
For all the world to see;
Their sign-boards, pointing left and right,
Are love and sympathy.
The little roads of happiness have this
Most charming way;
No matter how they may digress
Throughout the busy day;
No matter where they twist and wind
Through fields of rich delight,
They’re always of the self same mind
To lead us home at night.
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Keep Moving
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
I scanned wise words in a book to-day;
This was the message, they seemed to say:
Keep moving ahead!
You can’t stand still
Unless you really are very ill;
For if you stop, like an unwound clock,
You’re bound to suffer a fearful shock,
For something will happen to give you a shake,
And say to your conscience, “Move on, awake.”
Keep moving ahead, or your soul will die
And beauty evade your heart and eye.
No matter at all that your pace be slow
So long as you upward, upward go,
Into a finer atmosphere,
Where ideals live and visions clear,
And Goodness and Truth have taken firm stand,
And folks to folks stretch a loving hand.
For this be the measure of our success,
The measure of all life’s happiness:
Just how well we have moved ahead;
Or just how early our soul was dead!
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Little Plant-Lovers
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
Oh, you who to the parks did go,
To share the plants they gave away,
Somehow I think I really know
Exactly how you felt that day.
I saw you standing in a queue,
Impatient, eager, girls and boys.
And truly, then, I shared with you,
Your great anticipated joys!
Oh, sweets are nice, of course they are!
And so are toys, I quite agree;
But certain things are nicer far
The blossoms that next spring you’ll see,
I think these were the thoughts you had
As home you scurried, wreathed in smiles:
“Now, won’t these plants make Mother glad!
What flowers we’ll grow – just miles on miles!”
‘Twas then a little prayer did flow
From out my heart (it was for you)
To Him who makes the flowers to grow
And sends the sun and rain and dew.
“O let their plants” – this was my plea
“Take root and put forth blossoms fair.
Then this good truth each child will see:
In Beauty everyone may share!”
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Books
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
A dozen people sitting in a train;
Each face a book, where one can read a tale of joy or pain,
If one but look. Lo! Life, the printer, through the passing years has marked each face.
Sure signs of laughter and of bitter tears we now can trace.
Each face is like a book that we can read – self set aside,
Or self the slave of passion and of greed and scornful pride.
Each face is like a book, a story told. This one, a man
Spurred by ambition, restless, brave and bold – achieved his plan.
Ah! There’s a face that tells the sweetest story. Look at her eyes!
She is beloved, and love, life’s crowning glory, has made her wise.
Her mouth is tender and its curve is sweet. Oh! Lovely page
Wherein one reads a story quite complete – as old as age!
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The Mental Mint
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
Coins, beautiful and precious, are minted by the mind;
Fantastic ones and pleasing, some bitter or unkind.
Coins minted for the purpose of bartering each day-
Each person to his liking in his special way.
Golden thoughts and silver, dreams and visions bright,
These can buy us happiness to last from morn to night.
Coins of purest metal, hope without alloy,
Courage and ambition buy tremendous joy.
Should we mint some base ones – envy, craven fear,
We’ll purchase naught but sorrow, and this will cost a dear.
Mind! What are you minting? Thoughts of purest gold
To buy a share of happiness when we are growing old.
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Others
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
A little word to play so big a part!
It oft controls the hand and mind;
it is the guardian of the heart.
No stronger word we’ll ever find
Because of others, laziness will work;
And selfishness retire in shame;
And sadness sing, despite the gloom and muck;
And high ambition turn away from fame.
We are determined on a certain course
And then, because of others, curb our will.
Oh! little word, you have tremendous force
To turn to goodness what we planned for ill.
We must be brave that others will not fear;
And when the face of trouble doth appear –
Because of others, not a bit of fuss!
The sweetest, tenderest thoughts, others inspire;
The noblest actions are for others done;
For others, burns the brightest of love’s fire;
For others are the hardest battles won.
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Every-day Religion
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
“An every-day religion.” Ah! that’s the sort we. need.
It does not wait for Sunday in a deep and dark recess,
But lives with us throughout each day in every thought and deed,
And permeates our beings and brings us happiness.
A genuine religion affecting every day;
A living force within us expressed by what we do;
The unseen good companion along the’ hilly way,
Uplifting us whene’er we. slip— a strong guide and a true.
An every-day religion for our blessings and our sorrows,
For our going out each morning and our coming-in each night;
The balm for disappointments, the staff for great endeavour,
The source of pure delight.
An every-day religion transmuting homely things
To witnesses proclaiming the power of the Divine;
That binds us all together; gives the lowly heart strong wings;
May an every-day religion for evermore be mine.
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At Twilight
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
I would remember such and such a thing –
Not the sharp stones along the weary road;
Not the sharp words that used to cut and sting,
Nor the increasing weight of each day’s load.
But this I would remember – the keen thrill
When one could drop the burden of the day
And stand with victory upon the hill
And look down, exclaim: “I’ve come this way.”
I would forget when disappointment jeered,
Unsheathed its sword and struck across the heart.
I would forget the callous word that scared,
The unkind hand that flung a poisoned dart.
I would remember how a sunset’s glow
Drew all the sorrow from a jaded breast;
And how a river’s gentle, placid flow
Could put the spirit’s turbulence to rest.
I would remember only precious things –
How friendship never failed when skies grew black.
How sweetly, lilac-time, gay Robin sings –
Remembering thus, how pleasant to look back.
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Let The Heart Go
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
Unrein your heart, too-cautious one; let it gallop away.
‘Tis good for a heart to skip and run at least once a day.
Heed not the folks who mutter, “Unwise.”
Remember! our hearts need exercise.
Let the heart rush off with that word of praise that it longs to speak.
Why bottle it up for hours, for days, perhaps for a week?
Think of the joy that hearts withhold
By being so prim and proper and cold.
Let the heart rush off with that kindly deed that it longs to do.
Why tarry awhile, and what is the need? Days are so few.
Pale prudence may curb until it’s too late;
So gallop away, good heart, don’t wait.
That heart of yours – give it full rein. Let it gallop away.
A loving heart is the balm for pain whatever the day.
Be off, O heart, nor stay to hear
Wan caution’s voice or cynic’s sneer.
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Just Won’t Worry – So There
by Wilhelmina Stitch
Go away, you cringing Fear.
Hide your head, O carking Care.
Both of you – now disappear.
Just won’t worry – so there!
I’ve a lot to do today,
Haven’t any time to spare,
Both of you now run away.
Just won’t worry, so there!
I will fill each hour with work;
Off you go, you futile pair.
Here comes duty, must not shirk.
Just won’t worry, so there!
I will sing a cheerful song;
Hum a merry, happy air.
Now you two, just run along.
Will not worry, so there!
Care and Fear are out of sight;
To return they will not dare.
Work, as usual, brings delight.
Just won’t worry, so there!
Evening shadows fall at last;
Time to breathe a grateful pray’r;
Troubles of the day have passed.
Just won’t worry, so there!
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Mountain Peace
by Wilhelmina Stitch
Out in the valley, away from the plain;
Breathing the air of the mountains again;
Away from the city, its noise and its grime,
Its hustle and bustle and swift race with time.
Into the quietness, up, up to a peak
Where beauty is seen and silence can speak,
And bells ring out clearly from a distant church steeple,
“The mountains, the mountains bring peace to the people.”
Out of the valley of grief and despair,
Away from the presence of sorrow and care.
Up, up to the mountains, the peaks of the soul
Where minds find their healing and hearts are made whole.
Eyes blinded with fear, now look ye above
And gaze on God’s mountain, the peak of His love.
The peaks of the soul are the heights we must seek.
Here beauty is seen and the still voice may speak,
And bells ring out clearly from steeple to steeple,
“The mountains, the mountains bring peace to the people.”
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What So Wild As Words Are
by Wilhelmina Stitch
There’s naught so wild as words that rise on temper’s hot, uneven breath;
And, taking love by swift surprise, strike deep, like spears intent on death.
There’s naught as wild as words that flow from lips that watch not what they say.
Oh, foolish Two, you surely know that love is scarce an inch away!
Those wild, wild, words, they cannot break the precious link that binds you fast.
Be silent now for love’s sweet sake, for all the beauty of the past.
Be silent, though you suffer grief fearing that love has really fled.
When all is well – ah! what relief you breathed no word you wish unsaid.
There’s naught so wild as words that spring from jealousy or injured pride,
From some unreined imaging – then may calm wisdom be the guide
And place up our lips a seal until the bitter mood departs
And joy’s gay laughter comes to heal, and peace brings balm to two sore hearts.
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To A January Baby
by Wilhelmina Stitch
Although, small one, you cannot speak,
Doubtless you have this thought in mind –
The world you’ve reached is bare and bleak
And harsh of breath and far from kind.
But do not fret, my little one,
For soon a wondrous change you’ll see;
And long before your legs can run
There will be leaves on every tree.
And long before your lips let fall
Such singing words as “Mum” and “Dad”
You’ll hear the cuckoo’s human call –
“Cuckoo, dear you, Cuckoo. Be glad.”
When you can wave your arms about
And with your hands make magic passes,
The lilac blossom will be out
And daffodils dance with the grasses.
Ah, babe! though this bleak month you chose
In which to reach your mother’s arms,
At six months old you’ll see a rose –
A replica of your sweet charms.
You’ll watch all nature turn to gold,
And then when this bleak month returns,
You’ll have a cake, dear One-year-old,
On which a little candle burns.
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The Gain
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
“The hours Time stole away.” A curious phrase this seems.
Did Time then wish to play with my sweet dreams?
What did he with the hours he stole away from me?
Transform them into flow’rs or melody?
Time stole them, it is clear. For, lo! I have lost two
Whilst thinking hard, my dear – simply of you.
Where did the sly thief go with my most precious time,
Need (he ought to know) to make a rhyme.
Time stole two hours, the thief! I know this to my cost.
For am I not, in grief o’er moments lost?
And yet ’tis very plain, ’tis passing strange but true,
By this sad loss I gain – thinking of you.
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Two Kinds of Discontent
by Wilhelmina Stitch
Discontented! Want to climb?
Must be moving all the time?
Splendid! Keep it up, my boy;
To aspire is keenest joy.
That’s the hill you scaled last week,
Now there is a higher peak.
Discontent like this is fine;
Someone praised it as divine.
Discontented? Cannot work,
Have desire to sulk and shirk?
Meet a friend, have to mumble,
Giving him your latest grumble?
Have to drown yourself in pity;
Life’s a sad and doleful ditty.
Precious minutes are misspent
By this type of discontent.
Discontent can make or mar,
Hinder you or take you far;
Make you joyous or depressed,
Increase your strength or kill your zest.
Just depends if it’s divine or
Just a cowardly, puling whine.
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Later On
by Wilhelmina Stitch
When it’s winter, I shall look
At a memory picture book.
I shall look and I shall see
Candles on a chestnut tree,
Coral pink and waxy white –
Won’t they give a lovely light?
When the skies are dull and grey,
I shall see a summer day,
Hawthorn blossoms pink and red,
Lake of blue right overhead,
Roses on a cottage wall,
Graceful ferns where shadows fall;
Seagulls with their outspread wings –
I shall see such lovely things!
When it’s winter, I shall look
At a memory picture book.
I shall see what joys I’ve had,
Many reasons to be glad;
Friends to love and books to read –
All these pictures I shall heed.
Seeing them, I’ll cry aloud,
“Winter’s over, Head-low-bowed.
Winter’s over, Heart-in-pain.
Feel the breath of joy again…
When it’s winter, I shall look
At my memory picture book.
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God’s Friday
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
Like children we will strive to be, earnest in work and kind in play,
for we have heard the Father’s plea on this His day.
How often in our youth we heard, “Now promise that you will be good,”
And always tried to keep our word as children should.
God’s Friday! We can hear Him plead:
“Children, be good and love each other.
Open your hearts that you may heed your Elder Brother.”
He walks among you down the years, and from His lips one message falls,
“For man’s contempt I have no ears – My Father calls.”
God’s Friday! How to celebrate?
By thrusting avid Self aside,
by slaying jealousy and hate –
for One who died.
With gratitude now go your way.
Per-chance we’ll hear our Father speak on this His day.
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To New Baby
by Wilhelmina Stitch
I do not know as yet how much you weigh,
Little baby.
The color of your eyes? I cannot say,
Little new baby.
But this with certainty I write, small dear,
We are so very glad that you are here!
“Tis strange to think that your small hands control
A grown-up person’s very heart and soul –
They do, new baby.
We haven’t met each other face to face
Little baby;
But I can visualize your winsome grace,
Little new baby.
You magic magnet, drawing to your side so many folk
Who look at you with pride and whisper loving nonsense
While you gaze in wonderment at giants with gentle ways,
Little new baby.
God bless those tiny fairy-fashioned feet,
Little new baby;
And lead them into pastures pure and sweet,
Little new baby.
And may He teach those hands so soft and small
To let the gift of service from them fall.
And may He grant His blessings of good health
With love’s bright coins to furnish untold wealth –
For you, new baby!
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The Happiest Age
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
What age is happiest? Had you asked me,
I would have made this plea: the Now is best.
What joy to live with zest each newborn day;
and from the Moment wrest what Life will give away.
The Past is but a guest who came and went,
and left this one behest: to be content.
Think how To-day is blest!
We’ve eyes to see Nature in Beauty drest for you, for me.
What matter that the crest of Youth is past.
Youth lives within the breast with joys that last.
The will to do our best, and hands for giving.
Oh! Now’s the happiest, best time for living!
What age is happiest?
Oh! hear my vow, for I have put the test—the happiest’s Now.
Sweet sighs and kindly jest for warmth and cheer; and
Love’s most high bequest to crown the year.
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Home Is Here
by Wilhelmina Stitch
“Home is here,” says the chair,
“Though I’m shabby, I don’t care.
I have given hours of rest
To a weary, much-loved guest.
Do not ask, ‘Home is where!’
“It is here,” says the chair.
“Home is here,” says the fire.
“I’m the symbol of desire;
I’m a magnet drawing folk
To sit cosily and joke.
Of me no one can tire.
I’m home’s pivot,” says the fire.
Say the books, “Home is here.
We dispel despair and fear.
We encourage man to live
By the comfort that we give.
We’re the spirit of the home,”
Cried aloud each precious tome.
Says the heart, “You speak so well.
This is home, yea, I can tell.
Chairs and books, I turn you out…
Fire, I quench you with a doubt.
Yet my home, my home is here,
since my love is drawing near.”
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